“All forms that perish other forms supply,
(By turns we catch the vital breath and die)
Like bubbles on the sea of matter borne,
They rise, they break, and to that sea return.”
More from Alexander Pope
“Our rural ancestors, with little blest, Patient of labor when the end was rest, Indulged…”
“Yet graceful ease, and sweetness void of pride, Might hide her faults, if belles had…”
“Dear fatal name! rest ever unreveal'd, Nor pass these lips in holy silence seal'd. Hide…”
“Whoever thinks a faultless piece to see, Thinks what ne'er was, nor is, nor e'er shall be,…”